


Rebellion, or Something Like It

by Mnemosign26



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, M/M, Rebellious Aziraphale, SO MUCH FLUFF, Self-indulgent fluff, Teenagers, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnemosign26/pseuds/Mnemosign26
Summary: There was only one seat left in the classroom, and that was the one beside Crowley. Normally, he would stare daggers at anyone who attempted to come near him, but something about this boy was different.Aziraphale eyed the seat carefully, sitting down beside Crowley. After a moment, his gaze left his own desk and slid to meet Crowley’s.Crowley was used to people staring at him, the odd way his hips swayed when he moved, the dark glasses perpetually covering his eyes. But the look in Aziraphale’s eyes was unusual.It was filled with wonder.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 107





	Rebellion, or Something Like It

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> So this is my first solo fic that I'm actually posting (even though I've been writing fanfic for years)! I'm really excited to contribute to the GOmens fandom!

Anthony Crowley was not looking forward to this. 

At the age of sixteen, he wanted nothing more than to leave school and get a job somewhere. Somewhere that would annoy his family, preferably. He had been rebellious all his life, even amongst his family, who made a point of being different. 

He wondered sometimes about what he would do for work. He’d never been bothered with studying, achieving slightly above average marks without even trying, so he probably wouldn’t do anything requiring top grades. Maybe he’d run a plant shop, he thought. He could make countless plants grow better - by destroying their mental states. 

So he was not excited by the prospect of the first day of school for the year. 

Sighing, he walked - well, not really walked; the only proper word to describe the movement of one of his feet stepping in front of the other was _sauntered_ \- through the school gate, sighing. The other students followed them with their eyes; he met the gaze of one or two with a smirk. 

The day passed mostly uneventfully: he tripped up a bully by sticking out his foot, he talked back to a teacher who asked him to remove his glasses and earned himself a detention, and he had flipped off a girl he’d been partnered with to discuss History class. He knew more about history than she ever would. 

All in all, he reckoned this wasn’t a bad day for him. Obviously, he would’ve preferred to be at home, yelling at his plants and listening to his Queen cassette tapes, but if he _had_ to be at school, this was the best that could be hoped for. Even so, he was counting down the minutes until he could leave. 

One period to go, he told himself. A lot of dissent and discord could be fomented in one period. English Literature, though. _Ugh_. 

He hadn’t read the book they were studying in the class, and he was damned if he ever would. The way he was going, he’d probably be damned anyway, he thought, and the corners of his lips turned up slightly at the prospect. 

He sat down in the back corner of the classroom and waited for the rest of the class. Once, when the room was almost full, a girl tried to sit down next to him.   
  
“Is this seat free?” She asked, gazing hesitantly at where she assumed his eyes would be, behind his glasses. 

The glare he gave her came through the glasses, and, accompanied by the low growl in his voice as he said drawled, “No,” and the faint sneer playing about his mouth, the effect was enough that she walked hastily away from the table. His smile widened as she left.   
  
He had nothing against the concept of ‘friends.’ He’d just never had one. And he was more than happy for it to stay that way. What would a friend do that he couldn’t?

He sighed with something like relief as the door closed after their teacher. Tall, blonde, middle-aged - this teacher looked no-nonsense. Oh well. Crowley could break him, he was sure. 

The teacher’s belongings hit the desk at the front of the room with a _thud_ . “Right.” He said, and turned to the board behind him. “My name is Mr Benson,” he wrote the name on the board and underlined it, twisting back to face the class. “You have read the text.” It wasn’t a question. “I want you to - you, there. At the back.”   
  
Crowley waved his hand with a flourish while the teacher furrowed his brow. “Yesss?” He hissed, a tiny, mocking smile embellishing his face. He leant back on his chair, the perfect picture of ease. He could tell, it annoyed the Heaven out of Benson. 

“Take your glasses off inside, and sit up straight -” He broke off, clearly wondering what Crowley’s name was. 

“Anthony Crowley,” Crowley supplied. “And, no, I’m not taking my glasses off. Thanks anyway for the suggestion.”

“It was not a request, Mr Crowley, and I do not appreciate your tone.”

“Seems like you don’t appreciate much at all, really,” Crowley stated. Everyone in the room was staring at them, their eyes swinging between student and teacher like they were watching a tennis match. Or table tennis, Crowley realised. Nothing against table tennis, really. 

Benson lifted a finger accusingly at Crowley, and took a deep breath, like he was about to go into a well-practiced spiel.   
  
Then the door opened. 

In the doorway stood a teenager with white-blonde hair and blue eyes that seemed to sparkle. He really was quite beautiful, Crowley thought. He found he couldn’t look away. “Ah.” The boy said, over the mountain of books he was carrying. “I’m terribly sorry, but I, er…” He hesitated, as though unsure how to continue. “I got lost,” he admitted sheepishly, “but this is my class, I believe.”

“You must be Aziraphale Fell?” Benson pronounced ‘Aziraphale’ as ‘Az-eye-ra-pale.’ 

The boy in the doorway grimaced. “Aziraphale,” he corrected. 

“Come in, then,” the teacher gestured impatiently.   
  
There was only one seat left in the classroom, and that was the one beside Crowley. Normally, he would stare daggers at anyone who attempted to come near him, but something about this boy was different. 

Aziraphale eyed the seat carefully, sitting down beside Crowley. After a moment, his gaze left his own desk and slid to meet Crowley’s. 

Crowley was used to people staring at him, the odd way his hips swayed when he moved, the dark glasses perpetually covering his eyes. But the look in Aziraphale’s eyes was unusual. 

It was filled with wonder.

***

Aziraphale Fell was really looking forward to this.

He loved books, plays, anything English or Literature. If anyone had asked him what he wanted to do after he left school, he would’ve said something to do with books. A library, perhaps, or a bookshop - although Aziraphale was far too attached to his books to ever be able to sell them, he thought. 

Last period Literature class was therefore promising to be exciting. 

It was just unfortunate that he got lost, really. The school was actually quite big, and finding his way around was somewhat trickier than he had anticipated. He reached his classroom a little late, stressing about what he could possibly say to excuse this. 

As it turns out, he needn't have worried. The teacher, who he’d been told was called Mr Benson, did not care much about his lateness, as long as he did not cause any more trouble in the class. Though, looking at the rather handsome boy beside him - the flaming red hair, the self-satisfied smirk, the black clothes, the dark glasses - it seemed as though, if he spent any time with him, he would indeed be causing trouble. Ordinarily, if Aziraphale had thought someone was going to be mischievous, he would stay as far away from them as possible. But something about the boy, and the way, behind the glasses, his gaze never left Aziraphale’s eyes, perhaps, was different. 

***

“So. You will discuss the text, in partners, specifically referring to the events which you think led to the main conflict.” Benson sounded exasperated, and gestured to the students to begin talking.

“Well, then.” Aziraphale turned to the other boy. “I really enjoyed the read, I found the second act to be particularly fascinating -”

“I haven’t read the book,” the other boy interrupted, leaning back on his chair again. 

Aziraphale looked scandalised. Not that he was complaining, because he rather liked the look of this boy, and they would never have met if he wasn’t in this class, but why was he taking the class at all? “Well, my dear boy,” he turned to face his companion.

“Crowley,” he interjected. “Anthony Crowley.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale smiled beatifically, “I’m Aziraphale.” The smile vanished and he took a reproving tone. “Now, firstly, _Hamlet_ is a play, Crowley, not a book. And secondly, sorry to be frank, but how in Heaven do you think you’re going to get through this class if you’re not going to read the material?”

“I’ll be fine,” Crowley waved away the comment, fighting to keep his gaze on Aziraphale’s gleaming blue eyes. They looked like stars. “I get by in class, angel.”

“Angel?” _Shit_ , had he really just said that?

“Well, you do look like one,” Crowley gestured, as if it would explain everything. 

Aziraphale would normally have thought he was being mocked. But, as has been already established, he felt as though this situation was not quite normal. 

“Oh. Well. Thank you.” A blush crept onto his face. 

Crowley almost rolled his eyes behind the glasses. Aziraphale had actually taken that as a compliment. It was overwhelmingly endearing, he realised. He’d known Aziraphale for all of five minutes and he was already head over heels. Hell help him. 

“Anyway, perhaps you would ever want to do more than just ‘get by,’” Aziraphale added, looking down in slight embarrassment. “Perhaps we could study together?”

“I don’t do much studying, angel, but if it means spending time with you, it sounds great to me.” Crowley was feeling braver with every word. “And maybe we could, I don’t know, create some chaos or something.”

“Chaos. Hmm.” Aziraphale held the word, thinking. Traditionally, he’d run away from anything to do with rule-breaking, but he was inexplicably enamoured with Crowley. Besides, recently, some rules had stopped making sense to him. Any rules that claimed he couldn’t help people seemed suspicious, and, perhaps with Crowley’s help, he could combat that. 

“Rebellion.” Aziraphale said, and it sounded strange on his tongue. 

“Yup,” Crowley popped the ‘p.’ “We can do all the rebelling you want, angel.”

“That sounds perfect, my dear.” The corners of Aziraphale’s lips slid upwards, and his hand moved slowly across his desk, running along the border between his desk and Crowley’s. 

Crowley’s hand moved to meet it. Aziraphale’s fingers felt warm in his, and, for the first time in years, he felt himself smiling. Not smirking, just smiling. He was happy. 

And nothing had ever felt more right. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated, especially since this is the first fic I'm posting.


End file.
